WoWA Open Story: The Battle for Lordaeron
DRAMATIS PERSONAE *'Gazy' - human death knight and general of the Alliance *'Velanda' - blood elf ranger captain of the Silvermoon Huntsmen, twin sister of Kelanda *'Kelanda' - void elf rogue, twin sister of Velanda *'Drasgar '- human paladin and general of the Alliance *'Jerte '- troll rogue and agent of the Horde *'Drakthor' - orc warrior and commander in the Horde *'Lor'themar Theron' - Regent-Lord of Quel'Thalas and leader of the blood elves *'Sylvanas Windrunner' - leader of the Forsaken and Warchief of the Horde *'Anduin Wrynn' - human King of Stormwind and High King of the Alliance The scene was almost beautiful in a horrific sense. The flames lit up the darkened sky of Darkshore like fireworks during the Midsummer Fire Festival. Ashes rained down upon the coast like snowflakes during Winter Veil. Rage filled Gazy as he ripped his runeblade out of the orc shaman's stomach. I failed. The human death knight, one of the finest generals of the Alliance army, had been among the first sent by King Wrynn when the Horde invaded Ashenvale. Gazy had been tasked with aiding the kal'dorei in the defense of their lands. He was a seasoned veteran who had fought the Horde many times before, and yet... A cough from the beach broke the general's thoughts. There knelt a Forsaken soldier, dying from grievous wounds. Most of his flesh had withered away, leaving his bones exposed. Gazy sheathed his runeblade and approached the undead warrior. With his right hand, Gazy grabbed the soldier and pulled him to his feet by his collar. "You and I...we...we aren't a...as different as you think," the warrior wheezed. "We...we...we both serve death, death knight." The comment filled Gazy with rage. This MONSTER dares compare himself to me?! For the first time since the beginning of the battle, Gazy's face betrayed his emotion. He squeezed his hand around the Forsaken soldier's neck and lifted him off the ground. The rush of anger heightened Gazy's other senses. He now noticed the light of the burning tree more clearly. The stench of the smoke was stronger, and he remembered. He remembered that day in Stratholme. The smoke and fire rising as the city burned. The screams of the men and women. What he had done... Crack. The noise startled Gazy as he turned his attention back to the undead. He watched as the soldier's body slumped to the ground, while the head still remained in his hand. With a grunt, Gazy tossed the undead's head across the shore. He noticed Commander Daldoren, a night elf demon hunter, down near the water, and began walking towards him. Daldoren held his glaives to the neck of a blood elf demon hunter. Once brothers in the Illidari, the two were now mortal enemies in this terrible war. "I'll see you in the Nether." With a quick blow, Daldoren slashed open the blood elf's throat. Gazy stepped alongside Daldoren as the demon hunter sheathed his warglaives. The two had met during the Burning Legion's third invasion of Azeroth. Daldoren had sought unity between the Alliance and Horde to defeat the Legion and save the world. The two men stared across the water at the husk of the world tree. "I held no grudges against the Horde," Daldoren stated. "Not even for the death of Cenarius. They were valuable in the fight against the Legion." Gazy turned to face the night elf, his ash-covered face highlighted by the flames. "If you knew the Horde as well as I do, you'd want for nothing more than their destruction." The demon hunter's eyes narrowed. "I used to think views like yours were naive. I thought we could only protect Azeroth by working together, but now I see the world as you do. Teldrassil was my home. I fought the Legion to protect my home, and now..." Daldoren paused. "Now the Horde is no different to me than the Legion." The night elf looked towards General Gazy and asked him, "What do we do now?" Gazy turned his gaze back towards Teldrassil. He clenched his fist as the anger boiled inside him once more. "We destroy them. Every last one of them." Velanda sat quietly in her chair, cradling Dathren as the darkness of night fell over Quel'Thalas. You are my world now. It had been some time since the ranger captain had seen combat, and her life had drastically changed. When the Burning Legion invaded Azeroth, Velanda had just recently given birth to Dathren. Her brother, Kadrath, returned to Quel'Thalas, now a demon hunter, after having gone missing in Outland years earlier. Her twin sister, Kelanda, had wanted to see her new nephew, but Velanda scolded her as a bad influence, causing her to flee the family. Velanda knew she would have been valuable in the fight against the Legion, but she was still recovering from giving birth to Dathren, and someone needed to stay and watch the little one. Delarr and Kadrath ventured to the Broken Isles and fought against the Legion alongside their fellow paladins and demon hunters. There were reports of Kelanda, too, fighting demons on the Broken Shore, but she disappeared after Vol'jin was struck down. Velanda finally heard news of her sister months later, after the defeat of the Legion on Argus, and it was troublesome. Kelanda had become a void elf, now serving the Alliance. She had turned against Quel'Thalas. Suddenly, a knock came at the door. Delarr stood up from his chair and strode towards the door, opening it. There stood Lor'themar Theron. Velanda sighed. There were only a few reasons for the Regent-Lord of Quel'Thalas to visit her, and with renewed hostilities raging between the Alliance and Horde, she could guess exactly why he was here. Velanda stood up and walked towards the doorway, holding Dathren in her arms. Lor'themar bowed. "Velanda, it is good to see you again." "What brings you here, Lor'themar?" "As you may know, our relations with the Alliance have taken a turn for the worse due to recent events---" "By recent events, you mean an unprovoked invasion orchestrated by the Banshee Queen, correct?" An eerie silence lingered through the air. Velanda had once held respect for Sylvanas Windrunner, when she was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon in life. Death had made her a monster who Velanda could no longer respect. Lor'themar continued, "Yes. Lady Windrunner's attack may have seemed unwarranted, but she knows what she is doing. She is a master strategist---" "Is that what the Horde now considers burning thousands of civilians alive? Strategy?" Even Velanda was stunned by the sharpness of her own retort. Lor'themar paused, hanging his head in shame. After a moment, he lifted his eye to meet her's, stepping forward and continuing, "This is bigger than the Horde. Regardless of what you think of Sylvanas's actions, we're all in this together now. The Alliance seeks dominance over the Eastern Kingdoms. They will start with Lordaeron, and if Lordaeron falls, there will be nothing between them and Quel'Thalas." Velanda sighed. She had fought once for a corrupt warchief, and had later helped overthrow him. That had been years ago, and now everything had changed. "Lor'themar, I can't. I..." Velanda's words trailed as her eyes moved down to the child in her arms. She couldn't leave him. She felt Kadrath place his hand on her shoulder. Peace and calmness filled her. Just like when we were kids. "I will take care of the little one. I promise." Velanda looked up towards her brother. She carefully placed Dathren in his arms. Velanda then turned her attention back to Lor'themar. "I will fight. For Quel'Thalas." Delarr stepped forward. "For Quel'Thalas." A slight smirk formed on Lor'themar's face. "Rest for the night. Gather your gear and meet me in Silvermoon City at dawn." Lor'themar began walking away from the home, then stopped and turned back. "For Quel'Thalas." Screams of agony echoed throughout the warrior's head, refusing to disperse - or leave for that matter. They expressed so many emotions merged into one: sorrow, agony, suffering, fear. It did not at all contrast with the quietness of the courtyard at pre-dawn. In an attempt to throw away those screams the orc looked around the keep, examining its mossy cobble streets and untouched ruins. But in the end his efforts were to no avail, as the cries of the past entered his mind. This was Lordaeron Keep, the seat of power of one of the greatest human nations in history. Its ruins continued to echo that greatness. But more so they emanated the terrors that had originated from this place; this site had been the source from which Lordaeron had initially fallen. When that human prince, Arthas, slaughtered his father atop his own throne, hailing the nation's downfall at the hands of the undead Scourge. There was sorrow and agony, suffering and fear then too. Although, it seemed almost as though all places in this world possessed those emotions. But it was not the pain that troubled Drakthor. No, it was the paint the Horde now wore as a result of the destruction of that tree. The ''tree. ''We are finished, he thought to himself as his eyes darted down to his shoulderpads, resting on the ground at his feet. We have lost all honor. This Horde, ''our ''Horde died with Vol'jin. '' He hated to admit it, but it was true. Drakthor never possessed any love for the Banshee Queen, Sylvanas Windrunner, who had been named Warchief of the Horde by Vol'jin prior to his passing. While Drakthor preferred to have his leader be a true member of the Horde, he believed that there was greatness behind every mask. Even the shattered one. And thus far, Sylvanas had followed her own path - not that of the Horde - and committed mass genocide. ''She has destroyed our identity as warriors of the Horde, Drakthor silently growled as his eyes proceeded to continue darting around the courtyard, as if expecting an attack. He almost did, in fact. He suspected the Alliance would retaliate for what had happened to Teldrassil, and he had been right. An entire invasion force of what must have been the entire Alliance army was now lined up before Lordaeron Keep, preparing to deliver their verdict to the Horde. Or whatever we are now. The orc took a deep breath and stood up, turning his head to face the sky. It was purple, but he could make out the clouds flying high above as orange started peeking out from the distance. It would not be long now before the Alliance dogs began their siege, the siege that would decide the fate of the Horde. As he looked up at the sky, that word echoed through Drakthor's head. Horde. To him, the Horde had been many things over the years. Corrupted. Lost. And more recently, whole again, full of pride and honor. Honor that embodied what it meant to be Horde, honor that had, with Sylvanas's coming, been killed off. Drakthor firmly believed that with that honor, so too was the Horde lost forever. No. '' "This isn't right," he muttered to himself. Drakthor looked to the ground, where his dual battle axes rested on the ground, unstained and thirsting for combat. Beside them, with the shoulderpads, was his face plate. As he looked down at his unequipped gear, Drakthor could not help but question himself. Why no armor? It was not because he needed to rest his shoulders - no, it was because this armor represented his honor. Honor that was a burden he had to wear. They represented what it meant to be Horde. And to throw away his armor would be to throw away the Horde. Drakthor clenched his fist and shut his eyes. Silently he muttered again, "So long as I live, so long as ''I ''uphold honor..." he opened his eyes again. He reached down for one of his axes and held it in his hand, examining the freshly sharpened edge. "...the Horde lives on." He set the axe down and began to equip his armor as the sky overhead turned from purple to bright blue. The sun was coming, and with it the upcoming battle. As he tightened his pauldron straps, Drakthor thought, ''The Warchief does not represent the Horde. Not my Horde. '' Looking across the field towards Capital City brought back dark memories that Drasgar had prayed he never had to relive. It had been years since the paladin had seen this accursed city; he expected it to be surrounded by Forsaken, but the area in and around appeared almost inactive, save for the dimly lit ramparts where Horde soldiers kept watch. But Drasgar knew that the city was in fact active - behind those walls and beneath the ground, Horde scum were crawling all over the place, likely plotting the Alliance’s downfall. He did not think twice about this place’s history, a history that he had just barely avoided being apart of. Drasgar adjusted his grip on the pommel of his golden-hilted sword, which he held in front of him, the somewhat unclean blade pointed to the ground. A slight breeze flew by, making his royal blue cloak flow with the wind. His thoughts went to the upcoming battle, and what had provoked it. That damned Horde invaded Darkshore in preparation to besiege Darnassus and claim Teldrassil for themselves… at first Drasgar understood their motivations and fought valiantly against them to protect the World Tree. And then the incident happened. From the beach of Darkshore, Drasgar witnessed the Horde burn Teldrassil to ash, resulting in the deaths of so many innocents. ''So many were on that tree, he constantly thought to himself. So many died in the flames. And today justice would be delivered for the crimes committed by the Horde. The Alliance had already taken the town of Brill, and claimed control of much of the Tirisfal Glades. All that was left in their path towards total conquest was Capital City itself. And there it was, just across the open field, sitting still and seemingly untouched in the slowly illuminating dawn. Gazy stood in the remnants of Brill. Since landing on the northern shore of Tirisfal Glades, the Alliance had already cut a warpath to Capital City. The darkness of night still protected Sylvanas Windrunner, but it would soon fall, and the Banshee Queen with it. As Gazy surveyed the torch-lit Alliance encampment, his eyes fell upon a single human. There stood Drasgar Emsworth, his old friend. Gazy sighed. During the Burning Legion’s recent invasion of Azeroth, he had led the Knights of the Ebon Blade in an attack on the Knights of the Silver Hand at Light’s Hope Chapel. The purpose of the attack had been to raise the recently fallen Highlord Tirion Fordring as the leader of the Four Horsemen of the Ebon Blade, though the death knights ultimately failed. After the attack, Drasgar and Gazy dueled, and had not spoken to each other since. Drasgar suddenly noticed something as he looked out at the ruined city. A cold chill ran down his spine - although he appeared unaffected by it - followed by an all too familiar feeling that emanated darkness. Without turning he said, "I figured you’d be here." The paladin turned around to face the death knight, standing only a few yards off. In the back of his mind, hatred ran rampant, but he quickly dismissed the emotion and nodded to the man before him, "Gazy." "Drasgar. It’s been a while." "Indeed," the paladin agreed. Drasgar took another glance towards Capital City, then returned his attention to the other man, "It would seem fate has brought us together once more…in spite of the past." Gazy reached his hand out and pointed it towards the corpse of a Forsaken warlock. Dark magic coursed through his palm and into the remains, raising a ghoul from it. "I’m doing well by the way, though I am still a bit sore from you killing me." Drasgar looked down at the ghoul, mostly with disgust, but did not seem to mind it all that much. "Ah, not sure I can say I’m sorry." He examined the death knight, who appeared just about the same as he had during their last meeting - which seemed like years ago. "I trusted your death knights would find you eventually." As the thought of death crossed Drasgar’s mind, so too did another memory of the past. This one was even more recent than his duel with Gazy. He had led an independent, elite group composed of various members of the class orders to initiate an attack on the Tomb of Sargeras, in preparation for the Armies of Legionfall’s assault. At the time, Drasgar had hoped their efforts would make Legionfall’s efforts easier - and at first they maintained the upper hand in battle. Until they were betrayed by one of their own, and Drasgar took a bullet to the heart. He looked down at his chest, which was currently protected by a gleaming golden chestplate. Drasgar placed a hand over where the bullet had met him, and for a moment thought he felt nothing… Thump. Thump. With a sigh of relief, he thought, Thank the Light for Lyaria. A shame we cannot fight shoulder-to-shoulder this time. "I suppose you could say we’re even now." Gazy chuckled. "I suppose we are. Not that it matters to me. All I care about right now is protecting the Alliance from those savages." He glared at Capital City. He had spent much of his time here after the fall of Stormwind during the First War, all the way up until his death at the hands of the Scourge in the Third War. Like him, the kingdom of Lordaeron had fallen and been reborn. The rebirth of Lordaeron disgusted Gazy. The kingdom was rightfully Alliance territory. It was the birthplace of the original Alliance of Lordaeron. Now, it rested in the hands of the Horde, of the Banshee Queen. We...we aren't a...as different as you think. We...we...we both serve death, death knight. Gazy reflected on what the undead soldier had said to him in Darkshore. Were they really the same, both monsters in the service of death? No, Gazy thought. We are not the same. I broke free from the service of evil. The Forsaken never will. They must be destroyed. Gazy turned his attention back to Drasgar. "I trust I can count on your blade in the battle to come?" Drasgar looked to Capital City as well, and felt as though he knew what thoughts raced through the other man’s mind. Lordaeron had been his home for most of his life too, ever since the orcs - these orcs - destroyed his true home. "For so long the Horde has laid claim to what is rightfully ours," Drasgar began, a million thoughts racing through his mind. "This was our home. It is our home. And after--" he stopped himself, unsure of whether or not to continue. But it did not matter. "After Teldrassil, their fate has been decided." He completely turned his body to face Gazy. "We will make them pay for what they’ve done." Drasgar held out his hand and proudly said, "For the Alliance." Gazy looked at the paladin and shook his hand. "For the Alliance." The sunrise had now illuminated much of the walls of Capital City, and would quickly be upon them as well. At that moment, another human rushed up to Drasgar’s side and saluted to him. "General." Drasgar turned to face Jaxon Uriall, and returned the salute. "Report, commander." At first Jaxon uttered nothing, but then grimly spoke, "It’s time." The paladin turned to face Gazy, gave him one final nod, and then returned his attention to his second-in-command. "See to it the Fourth Division is ready to march. This ends today." Suddenly, a loud boom sounded overhead, stopping the two in their tracks. One of the Alliance’s mighty siege towers had fired the first shot onto Capital City, and more would soon follow. An Alliance soldier lunged for the troll rogue and slashed with his silvery sword. But Jerte was faster than the human. He tripped the man as he stepped to the side, leaving the human's back exposed to Jerte's already moving dagger. A moment later his corpse fell to the ground, and the troll stood triumphantly above him. Sloppy, was all he could think as he prepared for the next wave of constantly oncoming attackers. Ahead of them, covering the entire field between Lordaeron Keep and what was once the town of Brill, were seemingly infinite, orderly lines of Alliance soldiers commencing their assault. They were composed of various races in the Alliance, most notably human soldiers and dwarven gunmen. Jerte knew their army would be large, but he had not realized the Alliance had mustered an entire invasion force. The troll understood why they retaliated in such large numbers, but he quite frankly hoped they would be more crippled than they appear after what happened at Darkshore. Two more humans rushed the troll, who had positioned himself several yards from the base of the ramparts of Lordaeron Keep - the main gate was off to the right and behind. Jerte adjusted his stance in preparation for their attack, and raised his awareness in order to predict their next move. However out of nowhere, an orc warrior clad in red armor charged the two men and cleaved them down with two large battle axes. "Ey, mon, dose two were mine," Jerte grunted to the orc, who looked back and grinned. "Too slow," Drakthor said, his voice full of life. And Jerte understood why - Drakthor had seen many a war, and as such had grown so adapted to it that he had come to embrace it. Category:Open Stories